The Spy of Erebor
by Blowing-In-The-Wind67
Summary: His nephews have always believed Thorin Oakenshield to be a bitter, battle-hardened warrior, possessing of no sentimental bonds - until a cavalier, wandering woman appears by the fireside, smug and apparently of previous relations with the Oakenshield, joining their quest. Yet Thorin is not the only one acting strangely. THORIN/OC/BILBO triangle!
1. Chapter 1

_"Bilbo, _Bilbo_, Bilbo Baggins,_

_The greatest little hobbit of 'em all,_

_Oh, he plunders all the castles_

_and he pillages the villages,_

_When he strides on by,_

_the Orc-maids can't but cry,_

_for Bilbo Baggins is a dashing-"_

"Ah, I think that's quite enough, thank you," Bilbo interrupted hurriedly, face set in its seemingly perpetual grimace of wholly uncomprehending, devoutely uncomfortable bafflement; chin protectively angled inwards, mouth drawn into a tight line, eyes squinting in a disapproving manner.

Fili's merry eyes were lit with the familiar, roguish fire as he jauntily turned to his tan-skinned brother, mustachioed lips quirking into a smug expression. "And I thought we were doing so well!"

The younger of the two nodded in apparent bewilderment, dark, orbicular eyes widened with thespian innocence as he agreed in wounded offense, "Me too. And we were just getting to the best part - Master Baggins, you should be_ honored _we're singing about you." His face twitched into an undeniably, and seemingly uncontrollable, rakish smile.

"_Very _honored," the stockier blonde added, gruff voice sage. "We don't sing about just anyone, you know."

Eyebrows raised skeptically, Bilbo spooned a sip of stew into his mouth before replying in his dubious, dry manner: "Yes, well, I don't think _honored _is quite the word I'm thinking of."

Thorin's cerulean eyes, hardened as granite, observed the trio with ruthless detail, flat in analytic observation. He was leaning in taciturn solitude beneath the shade of an oak, veiled by darkness and separated from the light-hearted follies of his nephews. The kingly dwarf saw little need for their incessant gaiety, yet had not the heart to interrupt what halcyon days of joyful youth remained in their lives. They were his only remaining blood-kin, and, as so, he possessed of a connection to them nearly bordering on paternal.

His heavy brows lowered as the hobbit's weary features broke into a begrudging smile while Fili and Kili roared with laughter. They were friendly with the creature - and obviously did not find one's worth on a precarious journey important. A senseless nicety on their part, but he supposed that the hobbit, however useless, did not deserve to spend the quest in utter isolation, so he allowed his nephews to familiarize themselves with the strained Shire-dweller.

The Oakenshield turned from the fire as a half-score of swarves poured in from the opposite end of the glade; they'd been attending to the ponies while the aforementioned trio readied the soup.

Soon irritated by their ridiculous jollity, Thorin set off tempetuously into the tall-wooded forest, boots falling heavily against the summer grass. The night was a pleasant one, he supposed, with a stirring breeze rustling the occasional strand of thick hair.

Erebor. Merely the thought of it washed over him a mindful of memories, nostalgic and lurching; of the soaring, chiseled chambers, and the thick-aired, jewel-encrusted mines far below the land, and the contentedness with which the dwarves, his people by birthright and by duty, resided in plenty and in satisfaction.

He called upon these recollections as he paced deliberately between the towering, shivering trees, soon buried deep within his wishful reminiscence.

But, no matter how deep in thought, Thorin Oakenshield always knew the sound of an enemy's arrival.

As soon as the surprised yells, fierce bellows and sharp drawing of weapons reached his pointed ears, he exploded into an infuriated sprint towards the encampment. As he barreled through the woods, the would-be king whirled from his scabbard his battle-hardened sword, breaking into the clearing with a mighty roar, leaping into the fire's light with his blade brandished.

The dwarves were doing the same, a chaotic rabble of noise arising from the mass as they all pointed their assorted weapons at one being.

Thorin approached the figure in a confident, swinging stride, raising his sword to the creature's throat. "Put down your weapon and you shall be spared."

A voice, jaunty and rich and, oddly enough, _female, _replied to him with droll coolness. "Thorin, my favorite idiot. If I were going to kill you, I would've done so when you were a drooling babe. Stop playing the toughie for once, hm? Thanks." She flipped back her hood to reveal a familiar face.

He'd recognized her tones once the insults had begun, but the sight truly drove the sight home. A radiantly pale face, molded with a broad, intelligent brow and a fine, tapered chin, nose delicate and upturned, eyes one with the golden firelight. Her hair, the color of the night sky, was cropped close to her skull, a bulky fur coat wrapped protectively around what he knew to be a feminine frame.

For a moment, he couldn't speak. Then, remembering his Company taking this odd scene in silently, he slowly moved the sword from her ivory throat, sliding it slowly back into its sheath. "Andraste Fargoer," he said in wonder, stony face moving into a grin. "I would have considered you dead long ago."

Kili looked on in utter turmoil as his uncle - the Uncle Thorin, the one utterly void of any emotions other than anger - replaced his sword and began to speak in soft, _friendly _terms with a diminutive woman. He smiled.

_Smiled. _

He and Fili looked at each other simultaneously, bearing the same expression of deep confusion and slight terror.

The hobbit was the one to mildly voice their collective inquiry: "Excuse me, but _who is that_?"

"Andraste Fargoer," Balin answered wisely, voice lowered in amazement.

"I sort of gathered that. I was wondering more who she actually _is, _not her name."

"And am I not my own name?" The woman, Fargoer, called to them suddenly, voice strident.

The brothers, as well as the entire Company, shifted to stare at Bilbo, hanging upon a response. They were, as a whole, absolutely put-off by Thorin Oakenshield's lady-friend, regardless of what hefty tease-fodder this would make later.

The hobbit shifted unsuredly, scratching his tawny curls as he glanced around, lips pursed as if expecting someone to speak. Instead, the woman jaunted forward - for she walked like a man, a confident, loping stride - and stared challengingly up into Master Baggins's wide eyes. "My name _is_ actually who I am, hobbit. You would be a fool to think otherwise."

Shortly after the fierce, terse words left her mouth, her crystalline face twitched, and her prim lips pulled into a smile. Then she burst into a hearty laughter, which was really very un-lady-like. Putting a hand onto the hobbit's shoulder, she said lightly, "I'm only jesting. You all are welcome to call me whatever you wish. I most commonly go by Raste when not pretending to be solemn and polite, and will gut you if you call me anything otherwise." After a few beats, the woman rolled her eyes. "By Aul, Thorin, you travel with a company of stoneheads. I'm _jesting_."

"_You're _a stonehead!" Kili cried indignantly, only to be elbowed by Fili.

"Thank you. At least I know _someone_ here is neither deaf nor dumb nor just dead. But since everyone else seems to be one of those, I guess we can just skip introductions. Is there food here, or are you all so terrified of a girl shorter than a halfling? I'm starving." She clapped her hands together, moving with her self-satisfied gait towards the fire. "Smells terrible, but I'm ravenous." Scooping up a bowl from the ground, she began ladling herself the biggest portion Kili had ever seen. "May I have a bit?"

As if she hadn't already emptied half the cauldron into her dish.

"Oh, aye, help yourself, lass," Bofur spoke in the thunderstruck silence.

Thorin moved to sit by her, further tossing Kili's mind into befuddlement. _Thorin Oakenshield was sitting on the ground. By the fire. Next to a woman._

He glared up at them all, fixating upon each and every one of them with a baleful glare. Just as he opened his mouth to, no doubt, command them to sit down, the diminutive woman, Raste, glanced up at them quizzically. "You're all aware you're allowed to sit, hm? Right. Just making sure."

Fili looked around exaggeratedly, a true actor, then shrugged and trooped gamely over to the log next to the woman. Kili followed quickly, not wanting to appear less brave or daring than his elder brother. He already didn't have a beard, and that was one strike too many.

Wary, the older dwarves returned deliberately to their respective seats, sitting tensely. Dwarves had never been renowned for their social prowess nor grace, and Kili was fully feeling that now, in a situation so odd he was nearly tempted to throw himself into the fire.

"So, Thorin," the woman said around a mouthful of stew, "now you go on quests with exclusively the elderly? And the obese, and those with – yes, an _axe _is lodged in his head." She examined the circle closely. "Care to have anyone easy on the eyes around?" Her wide, glinting, mirthful eyes finally landed on Kili and his brother.

"Hi," she said. "Raste."

"Such a lovely name that is," The yellow-maned dwarf replied grandly. "My own is Fili."

"And I'm Kili," the dark-haired one added, and they bowed their heads in unison. "At your service."

"Much appreciated, I'm sure," she replied with relish, chin raised with jovial self-assurance. Flaring, molten eyes scintillating with amusement, she turned her lamp-light gaze onto Kili. "From the line of Durin, no doubt – yes, I recall you two running naked into Thror's war counsel. Wee little things you were." She shoveled another mouthful of lumpy nourishment into her bowed mouth, finishing matter-of-factly, "I like you both much better now."

Fili seemed to be taken aback – and rightly he should have been, for he would have been five years more mature at the time – but the younger of the two was simultaneously pleased and incensed. Uncle Thorin's lady-friend was intriguing. While the dwarves broke their tense silence with roaring laughter, Kili raised his voice to be heard, shouting merrily, "And I'm sure you would much more enjoy the sight much more now, Miss Raste! And who are you to be in Thror's war counsel; _a suitor_?"

Thorin replied quickly, scathingly, "You would be wise to watch your tongue, nephew. The Lady Andraste has seen far more than you have in your foolish youth."

Immediately abashed, Kili ducked his embarrassed face, staring into the fire. He hated when his uncle reprimanded him.

"Well," Andraste's harmonic tones came to his aid, "I'm no youth, and still delightfully foolish, so I suppose it fits quite well."

Nevertheless wholly mortified, the kind-eyed dwarf was overjoyed when Balin stood, making his way stertorously to where the woman perched. "Lady Fargoer, a pleasure once again."

She leaped to her feet, nearly eye-level with the worn, deep-creased old one. "Balin!" She exclaimed, gripping his shoulders as her grin spread with joy. "You're shorter now – how many years has it been?"

"Sixty, my dear," he replied fondly. "And you appear to be just as we left you."

"What's going on?" Bilbo leaned, frowning, to the brothers. Did he expect _them _to know any more than he?

"That's Andraste Fargoer, laddie," Bofur told him wisely, to which the hobbit responded with a withering glance. "Before Erebor fell, she'd pop in with information sometimes, you see, to consult with Thror and so on." He lifted the elongated pipe from his mouth, blowing a steady stream of smoke towards the fire.

"Information? What type of information?" Fili inquired, head cocked in mystification.

"Oh, about what the Men and Elves and Orcs and Goblins were up to. I met her once when we were bringing gifts to the King. Wonderful lass."

The hobbit's concerned face was still scrunched with perturbment. "Is she a dwarf?"

Fili and Kili choked with laughter. He clearly had no idea of what dwarf women looked like.

Bofur, however, was slightly more kind. "Oh, no, Master Bilbo, she's _certainly _not a dwarf." He shrugged. "No one knows what she is." Leaning closer, a mischievous expression sparked across his face. "Ask Thorin, though, lad. He's been sweet on her since he was yay tall."

**Not exactly my best starter, but I guess it gets the point across; this is only a few days into the journey, before they encounter anything dangerous. This is meant to be a Thorin-Andraste-Bilbo triangle tale, though it may evolve into whatever happens to suit it best.**

**Next segment, we're set to find out who Andraste is to Thorin, as well as some arguments arising and all that other fun stuff.**

**Please, review with your thoughts! I'm open to criticism.**

**Until next time - **

**Elle**


	2. Chapter 2

**Give me your opinion after reading this chapter: Bilbo or Thorin?**

OoOoOo

The Fargoer had nearly forgotten the way of dwarves - and a surprise that was, too, since they were such peculiar creatures in most situations, especially social ones. To place a dwarf with a stranger was set to be either an awkward catastrophe or the fantastic start of a friendship.

Most of the time it was the former, a bit like it was when she met Thorin's company. They were shocked and terse and silent and not at all like the boisterous dwarves of Erebor she'd once known - and shocked they well had the right to be! Oakenshield had always possessed of the same net charm as a rather short troll, even under the best of circumstances. He had no explicable reason to know a seemingly young, attractive woman.

A fact which she had no qualms about.

But young she most certainly was not. She'd come to Thror in the first year of his reign, when he was of a sparse beard and a sharp mind. Thrain had come then, a muted, tight-tongued intellectual of a Durin with not much impetus nor inclination towards leadership. Andraste had come to become both of their close advisors, of course, as at that point she'd already been alive for a century or so and had travelled far across the lands; therefore, she was almost bound by obligation to become, upon his birth, the heir's assistant. Or a form of it. Something akin to it, she supposed.

Though it was in his favor that Thorin had always been handsome, something which often eased her customary thoughts to abandon the headstrong, stubborn, puerile idiot.

That lavender-hued morning, the moon still cast unsuredly over the travelers' oblivious heads, the woman was the first to wake. She came to her senses deliberately, though the rank scent of unwashed dwarf was not one to be warded off for long - the occasional hiss of fading embers was omnipresent, it seemed, as was the familiar grit of damp grass beneath her sleeping roll.

Sliding from her blankets with as much silence as she could muster, Raste settled on her feet uncertainly, gaining her bearings for a moment before observing with a childish smirk the faces of those sleeping around her. That obese one, the one with the name beginning with a '_B'_, was creating a horrendous rasping noise through his plumpy nose, sounding rather like he was dying. The dwarf with the friendly eyes and heavily-scupted hat, also of a '_B' _title, was splayed out across his axe-headed companion in sleeping senselessness.

And Thorin, of course, was pin-straight with nary a leg nor arm out of place.

A shame, really. It would have been such fun to mock him. That also would have allowed her the chance to wake up the other vagabonds so they could once again strike up their travel, but she supposed she shouldn't be viewed as obnoxious so early on in the quest.

The shorn-haired mystery, issuing a rather exaggerated yawn, lumbered off into the forest and away from the unconscious dwarves. It was not as if she had anything of more importance to do. She was Andraste Fargoer, the great wanderer of whom _no one _knew _what_ race, the great wanderer valued by all sensical leaders for her unexplainable well of knowledge on the internal fairs of _everything._

Those fools always wondered in awe how she was aware of so much - she simply listened. When she wasn't dwelling for days on end, drunken, in the pubs of Men, or hiking through the mystical Misty Mountains, or enjoying the tastes of Rivendell cuisine, or simply just sitting and doing blissfully, absolutely nothing, she was listening. Listening to the boring Ents, and the stupid Men, and those outrageously noisy Orc packs, and those dull-witted trolls, and those hokey Elves. Anyone, really.

It was how she made an earning, and she was skilled at it.

Her dark, arched brow quirked amusedly as her deft gold-brown orbs noticed the hobbit - Bilbo Baggins, if she remembered correctly, and she always did - sitting in a hunch with his back to a thick tree, scrawling in a coarse, leatherbound journal. His lined, homespun face was creased into an expression of utter concentration, clever eyes reading over his own writing as he obviously considered the words he'd just penned.

"You're from across the River, I gather," she called to him jovially, her sleep-weary, broad face brightening mischievously. "But not quite over the Hill. The Shire, then?"

His tousled waves of chestnut jerked upwards in alarm, and the hirsute-footed creature stared at her in a vague mixture of consternated shock and apprehension. He cocked his head, hardening into a frown. "Ah... yes. And... just_ how _would you know that, pray tell?"

Well, Gandalf had told her, of course, when the two had inadvertanetly met a few miles away in Bree. But there was no reason for her to give away _that. _So, as not uncommon, she began to select random wisps of thought to relay: "That waistcoat you're wearing, with the mustard embroidering. The Hobbits across the River don't have the bennible flowers to make that color, and the ones over the Hill - really, they don't ever comb their feet like that." Andraste swaggered closer to the wary creature and perched next to him comfortably.

It was always important to figure people out, so to speak. She could fit into a variety of personas to fit a variety of different beings and situations, and interesting was it to discover a new personality. One wouldn't have to be put on to deal with the decidedly unimportant Shire-dweller, though, such as with Lord Elrond or King Thror or the likes of men.

It was merely intriguing, such as this test of personal space.

Baggins looked quite obviously uncomfortable with the closeness, drawing his chin in defensively as he frowned - did he have a perpetual expression of awkwardness? - and attempted to clandestinely inch away from her. Finally, he looked at her with squinted eyes. "I do believe you just made that up."

She considered this silently for a moment before a roguish smirk flared across her fair-skinned face. "You know, that's really quite possible. But I can never be entirely sure."

"Entirely sure of _what_?" He inquired incredulously, brows dubiously lowered.

Mouth opened in a self-indulgent laugh, her countenance whimsically smug, the diminutive woman replied, "Of what I'm saying."

She'd forgotten what good fun hobbits were to meet. They were so easily ruffled, really, and Andraste wasn't thoroughly convinced that this particular one was half Took-blood - as Gandalf had so told her - since he was so... cultured. His great-great-great-great-Uncle Bullroar would be positively disgusted at the feminity of his progeny.

Baggins took a good, long while to respond, during which Andraste took the flippant pleasure of leaning forward to peer at his work. A journal, it seemed, of the previous day's trivial adventures.

How quaint.

"First of all," he said defensively, snatching the clothbound writing-book to his rather fleshy chest, "this is private, thank you. And, secondly, how could you _not know what you're saying-"_

"You can't forget the part where I come in," she interrupted blithely. "It was all rather dramatic, if you think about it. Very fitting for a novel."

The hobbit opened his mouth in protest, seemed to reconsider it, then started once again. "I'm not writing a novel, you should know," he said, blinking severely. "It's just a daily, ah, journal. Quite so." Before she had the chance to interject, he turned to fully face her, face quizzical in the dusky light. "And, if you excuse my asking, _who _are you? Besides Andraste Fargoer, of course."

What an interesting question. Over the centuries she'd thought of a great many of clever, vague responses to the common inquiry, but at that moment she was far too tired and altogether unimpressed by this humble hobbit to use one. "I suppose if I told you, then, that my name _isn't _Andraste, nor Fargoer, it would all be very confusing, and also untrue, since they're _both_ my name. In that order, naturally. But, really, _Fargoer _goes on to explain as much as necessary." Before he could continue the line of questions into her life, which was always simultaneously amusing and unwelcome, she said wryly, "Oh, such a pity to halt the incredible conversation, but I fear we should wake the others. After all, that fat one was asleep when I passed him, and I'm almost sure he was supposed to be on guard."

She rose smoothly to her feet and set off briskly. Baggins heaved himself up, storing his notebook and quill under his arm as he lightly jogged to stride alongside Andraste. "Ahm," he said, voice unsure, "would you like my coat? You seem to be just clad in a... a nightshirt.

Hm. He was correct. Glancing down, she was still clad in her semi-sheer under-dress, which caused her only to release a brash laugh.

This creature was so decent it was comical.

"I'm fine. Thanks, though. I've got my own coat over there, and I like it a whole lot better than yours, and seems to be much warmer, as well. No offense meant, naturally. That's a very pleasant corduroy there." She smirked mischievously. It was not every day she could act this imbecilic, unfortunately - leaders tended to take themselves quite seriously, especially when recieving information from a female wanderer of questionable heritage.

They arrived in the clearing, the soft snoring rising up in a noise akin to a light rumbling of thunder. The dwarves were still asleep, obviously, and Andraste's auroral round eyes quickly lit upon Thorin's stern, slumbering figure. Spinning back to face the hobbit, she whispered confidentially, face twisted into a roguish expression of smugness, "Thor's not as tough as he likes to think he is, nor as solemn. Rather like an overgrown infant, honestly."

"Ah." The terse reply from Baggins was monosyllabic.

What a shy little bugger.

Striding lightly to Bombur, she nudged his heftily blubbery frame with her thin, nude foot. "It might be a good plan to at least feign being awake when on guard," she said dryly.

The fat dwarf righted himself with a wild snort, whipping his jowly head around in a perturbed fashion. Why had Thorin brought such an obese one along? The food supplies would be gone in a matter of days.

"It also would be part of that good plan to wake up the rest of the company. Daylight's going to be around in a few minutes, Sprightly." She leaned against the tree in blatant amusement as he rolled himself heavily to his feet, huffing and puffing in alarm as he set about to arousing the other dwarves.

OoOoOo

How was she still alive? And so unchanged - ever since he was but ten years old, she'd retained that milky-smooth pallor, youthful face, and womanly, diminutive stature.

Her kind hailed from the Old Forest, he knew, near the barrow-downs, but that was all she had ever revealed to him, and when he as only a youngling; she had most probably supposed that he would forget.

That was not the case. He locked each and every word of Andraste Fargoer's in a chest deep in his heart, for reasons quite personally of his own.

"My, my, Thorin," the strident voice mused, "your eyebrows have really grown in."

He was all at once reminded of what stupidity she could spew.

Face straight and dubious, restraining a semi-amused smile, Thorin his head to her. She was bobbing contentedly up and down on her barrel-bellied pony beside him, that unfortunately familiar smirk on her comely, puckish features. "I was but a boy when you saw me last," he replied flatly, equal parts annoyed and amused.

Much like the days of old.

"A boy with patchy eyebrows," she agreed matter-of-factly. "I was almost worried they'd never grow in."

Thorin cocked his head, eyes scintillating with forbidden amusement yet face set as if hewn from granite - a stony expression he'd cultivated carefully over years of practice. From his mentor, of course, so _her. _"That was clearly for naught."

"Clearly." She repeated, leaning her tapered face closer to his and standing in the stirrups to examine his face with more scrutiny, a fine line appearing between her own dark, angled brows. "But now they're a bit overgrown, I think. Yes, they're definitely overgrown." The woman sat back in her saddle with an air of finality. "You're doomed to the curse of the Durin-brows, I'm afraid, Master Oakenshield. And don't act as if you're being stern; your eyes are creasing. That's always been your tell."

"And you needn't test the waters, as you liked to say, by calling me _Master Oakenshield, _Andraste," he countered strongly, attempting the squelch the humorous squint of his eyes.

"It's still there," she reminded him, sighing wearily. "Your teacher being the _Fargoer _and you still haven't mastered your facials. Little Thor, I'm quite disappointed."

"I'm more than a small amount taller than you," he retorted quickly, a wave of nostalgia immersing him in long lessons of analyzing bodily movements. They were like words, she had told him countless times. "And hardly _little _by many standards."

"Oh, yes. And definitely by the elves'." She opened full lips into a most impolite cackle. Andraste could be the most charismatic speaker of all in the presence of kings, yet she rarely followed her own teachings in regular conversations. A bit hypocritical, yes, and obnoxious, definitely, yet admittedly slightly humorous.

"The only time I would care what the elves thought was if they decided to wipe out their own race," he replied with dark humor, returning his gaze to the winding, tree-studded path before them.

"They're not entirely terrible, you know," she started, a tinge of reproach fringing her voice, golden eyes wide with earnesty, "their pipe-weed is quite excellent. Perhaps that's why they seem to float about most of the time." Andraste trailed off into smug sniggers.

He coughed into his hand, wiping a rebellious smile from his kingly face. She had never changed.

OoOoOo

Bilbo frowned, perturbed, as several small, clanging cloth sacks sailed dangerously close to his head. Glancing at Kili, he asked, "I presume that you all are you are casting wagers again?"

The fine-featured, scruffy-chinned dwarf replied with a decidedly naughty grin. "Of course, Mr. Baggins."

How oddly he said his name, Bilbo noticed for what seemed like the fortieth time, yet he could not say a thing of the foreign accent, for that would be rude. "Of what, then?"

It was Fili who leaned to answer, that omnipresent smirk on his braid-fringed head. "Of what's between Thorin and the girl, naturally."

Bilbo's consternated scowl deepened, and he looked in confusion between them. "What? By what do you mean?"

Fili raised his blonde brows dubiously, looking to Kili, who answered enthusiastically, like a mischievous young child, "It seems as if Thorin favors her, we think."

"So we're casting wagers."

"On if he does."

"Ah." Bilbo looked ahead at where Thorin and the woman's ponies trotted a distance before Gloin's. "What do you two think?"

"Of course he does!"

"How could he not?"

The hobbit withdrew into his thoughts as the two chunnered on of the wonders they had seen while she was in her nightgown. He didn't care for the notion of her with Thorin - he knew not why. He just didn't.

It wasn't right.

OoOoOo

**Vote! Bilbo or Thorin?**

**Thanks again for all the awesome reviews, and give me some more, if you don't mind!**

**I'll update soon,**

**Elle**


	3. Chapter 3

**Heya y'all! Today we'll be getting to the trolls, so here we go:**

OoOoOo

His hair, lengthy and impeccably brushed as vainly as common, was only just beginning to become laced with the telltale silver of age. She studied the pale, web-like strands in vague amusement - how very depressing it must be, to know that your life is nothing but a brief spark, a slight flicker across the inexplicable continuum of time, ongoing despite your achievements and attachments. Just as you got the hang of life, you were slain purely from sheer age.

Rather sick and hilarious at the same time. Especially since it didn't pertain to her.

Raste's kind was a special one, she knew, with an oppurtunity for life to be infallibly simple or inexplicable complicated. Naturally, she'd chosen the latter, as the former was far too mundane, but, regardless, she had only a small idea of her true age. Several centuries were spent in Old Forest, she knew, mostly spent being incredibly bored and so forth, before she actually left. _Then _she started travelling across the tempestuous land, quickly gaining a favorable yet mysterious and inexplicably _wise _reputation.

And the surname too. More _funny _than anything else, really. It was a wonder anyone took her seriously; _Fargoer?_ So pretentious. Perhaps it'd been a bit airheaded to accept it from the Men, but it didn't really matter. She was viewed with a mixture of fear and awe, anyway, regardless of the stupidity of her second name. It worked.

_Oakenshield, _though, was an admittedly sublime one. Especially when paired with his front name, Thorin had made off pretty well with his title, the august, kingly undertones suited well to his stoic personality.

To battle these thoughts, she had to bring to the forefront of her mind the images of a stark-naked, wispy-bearded ten-year-old Thorin Oakenshield bolting through the internal chambers of imperial Erebor as he fled from bathtime. Then the thirty-year-old intoxicating himself to the point of - _what? Impossible! _- giddiness, roaring and laughing.

There. It was all in place once again.

She glanced at him as the dwarf stiffened obviously, face hardening into a painstakingly obvious stone mask as his thick fingers strayed towards the hilt of his sword. He was trying to be covert, wasn't he? How droll.

"No need to tangle your beard," she told him briskly, averting her eyes back to the trail ahead. "It's just Gandalf." She furrowed her brows, turning to look at him, this time her incredulous gaze meant to be noticed. "Have you just now noticed the hoof-sounds?"

He looked at her coolly, which, honestly, was answer enough. "You would think that those ears were overlarge for a particular reason," she mused in a mutter, shirking her orbicular eyes to the ground before flicking them back up to his.

The pale-skinned woman watched in mischievous delight as his facial expression battled itself - she could practically read his thoughts. He thought her humor was ridiculous, funny, and wholly beneath his majesty and intelligence, yet his narcissism restricted him from smiling. So he kept his smoldering, criticizing stare upon her, lips pursed and brows lowered in disapproval.

But the eyes. His _eyes, _crystalline yet simultaneously cloudy, held that secret glint of light-heartedness. Especially as he grew to be withdrawn and taciturn, she'd always loved that.

Not in a way of affection, though. _Affection_ for the _Oakenshield_? Bah. Utterly absurd. In his best dreams, perhaps, but nowhere else.

She was jesting to herself. He'd always held a special affection for that one dwarf-maiden, the coy, smiling one with the green eyes and golden skin. Andraste, personally, had always found her quite stupid.

Maybe she died. Such a relief _that_ would be.

"Or perhaps," Thorin replied, feigning disinterested solemnity, "yours are just too small." His left brow quirked upwards, and the fresh-white of his clear-cut teeth were revealed in a slight smile.

Andraste considered this for a moment. "No," she decided, "yours are just large. Sorry, Thorin."

His grin began to grow, wrapping across his sharp-featured face like a vine. It fled from his face as the grey wizard's rich tones echoed to them: "Dearest Andraste! How wonderful to see you again." His lanky horse trotted towards them in a friendly manner, and its rider, equally amicable, bowed his head in respect to the dwarf-heir. "Thorin. You are making good progress on this path; we should continue along it." He continued past them blithely, his steed falling into step by the barrel-bellied pony of the quaint little hobbit.

"Where were you?" Thorin called in a demanding tone, twisting his creature's reigns to the side so he could easily face the old man while at the same time continuing down the straggly, overgrown trail. Raste resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"There are some things, Master Oakenshield, you need not concern yourself with," Gandalf replied, brisk and pleasant.

Raste happened to know Thorin and his stubborn sense of prideful curiosity, so she took it upon herself to stop his idiocy before it further escalated. It was one of her duties in caretaking the Durin-heir. "Oh? And we're not interesting enough up here for you, grandfather?"

The elderly one's response was amused. "Perhaps a bit _too _interesting."

"_Too _interesting? No such thing!" The woman called in reply before settling herself back onto her pony's padded spine.

"I disagree," Thorin interjected darkly, obviously feigning resentment. So he was feeling up to teasing her, eh?

"You hear many things of Thorin Oakenshield," Andraste replied with a whip-like quality, "but his wit is not one of them, my friend."

He looked at her balefully for a few long moments before his face creased into an undeniable miniscule smirk; he coughed to veil it.

OoOoOo

"Does she like _knit _things?" Ori questioned primly, causing Bilbo to inwardly wince in utter pathos of the childish dwarf's polite simplicity. It didn't cast him in the best of lights, in the hobbit's opinion, especially not around all his brawny kins.

Gandalf answered a bit awkwardly - "Ah, I do not quite know, Ori. You could very well ask her, you know."

"But I don't _know _her," he insisted daintily as Gandalf sighed and rode ahead to Thorin. Bilbo wished he could just very kindly tell the young dwarf to bottle himself before he made them both look daft, because he was very sure he would always be coupled with the dullest of the group.

Coincidentally, that was Ori.

"She's a witch, I tell you," Gloin announced from a few feet before them, twisting about on his pony as the thing plodded on determinedly. "Set to murder us all. That's how no one knows who she is, laddies!" He exclaimed conspiratorily.

This quite alarmed the excitable hobbit; he didn't believe that, of course, but was dismayed to know that the notion would even be considered. He wasn't sure what to make of her, of course, what with her and parading around in her _very _inappropriate bedclothes and reading his journals and talking to Thorin, but she wasn't harmful. Bilbo knew that, at least.

His eyes grew in size as her raven-haired head bobbed into view behind Gloin's large, fiery one. Her tapering face, unlike the matronly, square features of the female hobbits he was used to, was lit with warning mischief as she approached the dwarf from behind. She was eerily silent as she made her way - even her _pony _was! Why was _she_ not the burglar?

Andraste held a milky finger to her roselike lips, smooth brows drawn delightedly. Her honey-eyes were snagged on his hazel ones far too long for his liking as she wordlessly told him not to speak, so he looked away quickly. Inconspicuously, up at the treetops.

"... she's not to be trusted," the truculent dwarf was continuing spiritedly, "under any oath at all! The girl is-"

"Really?" Bilbo felt safe to look back down as he heard her strong tones interrupt Gloin's, as she went on cheerfully, "I rather liked that Raste fellow. She's rather nifty, actually, if you ask me."

Behind the Shire-dweller, Fili and Kili roared with laughter at their travelling partner's plight, but Bilbo really couldn't muster much beyond his usual perplexed feeling of perturbation.

"And most certainly _not _a witch," she finished with equivocally springy, contented fervor, "though I'm sure Thorin's sword would be quite willing to take the matter up with you." She urged her pony past his, leaning to punch his thick arm as she grinned widely. "Only jesting. But I'm no witch, I'll tell you that now."

"So what are you, then?" There was still a challenge in Gloin's staunch brogue.

"That's something better told around a fire, most likely when being roasted alive by it," she informed him gaily, "so, should that ever happen, I will most certainly be prepared to regale to you in full detail my incredibly wondrous life."

Bilbo frowned at this.

She made no sense. Literally, as in _none at all._

He raised tawny eyebrows dubiously as she reigned her pony next to his. Did she take special joy in prodding him with bizarre inquries and smug jargon? He'd only had one actual conversation with her - the one that morning, where she was in that terribly revealing undergarment - and that was uncomfortably odd enough for him.

"So," she began, pleasant and congenial, though her aura had a certain frighteningly roguish charm to it, "are you considered to be particularly good-_looking _for a Hobbit?"

Bilbo choked on nothing in particular. "Excuse me? Good-looking?"

"Don't look at me as if I've suddenly got three heads, Baggins. I've met a few other hobbits, but they were all male and all very ugly. D'you know the Brandybucks? Them. Very dandy people and all that, but every one of them was hideous; you're not quite so terrible. So are you considered good-looking among the ladies?" Her tone was earnest, if somewhat ridiculing and jesting. Though perhaps he was only making up the _ridiculing _part. Bilbo always was sensitive to that.

"Um..." He was taken aback, and could feel the unwelcome flush appearing beneath the skin of his cheeks. "I... don't know."

"There _are _hobbit women, hm? Or do you all just pop from the ground?" She asked, obviously very entertained, which only flustered Bilbo more.

"No, no, no, there are," he began absently, not sure of what to say.

"Good. It would be rather alarming if I were the first female you'd ever seen." Her reply was wry, the smooth face grinning.

He glanced at her in a brief, scrutinizing look - he'd never seen a woman with hair so s_hort _and so sheerly _thick. _It was nearly an iridescent tone, similar to the shimmering depths of an inkwell, and had a series of slight waves which served to bring the mane down to above her earlobes in most spots.

The fur collar of her coat matched, with a few shining black hairs poking up from the mass of pelts surrounding her neck and on her shoulders. It was clasped tightly in the center, so, in a very similar way to Fili's or perhaps even Dwalin's, the appeal and overall soul of the thing was dwarvish. That much was not difficult to discern.

"And why would that be?" Bilbo asked squarely, in an attempt to regain his verbal footing, so to speak.

"Well," she said, rather fiendishly, "I'd hate to raise the bar a bit too high for your halfling women. Though I don't supposed I'm entitled to use the term _halfling, _as that would make me a _quarterling._ The Men like to call me that, as they're never quite sure what I am, which happens to be highly amusing." The woman's fluid voice flowed at a rapid pace which Bilbo found rather hard to follow. The accent stretching and marring her words was mellifluous and lackadaisical, closest in anything to Bofur's, yet the ostentatious dialect seemed much more... _archaic._

He stared at her, mouth moving slightly as he slowly decoded her dulcet articulation. "Oh, the _Men. _I wasn't at all sure what you were saying for a moment there - sorry about that. Well. Yes. That's very interesting." Bilbo nodded in his own agreement, unsure of what to say next.

It was all rather strange.

"Not really, actually. This whole conversation is rather mundane, though you're pretty humorous yourself, whether you know it or not. So what caused you to come on the journey, Baggins?" Andraste cocked her head, mock-quizzically, brows lowering and mouth quirking irrepressibly. She clearly found this all very funny.

What _had _caused him to tag along? "Certainly not for my love of ponies, or cold food." He started, matter-of-fact and grim.

The small woman's peal of laughter startled him, but at least _someone _was here to converse _somewhat _normally. "I suppose I'd like an adventure. That's really all I can give you, because, honestly-" he looked at her with a pronounced grimace, chin jutting as he shook his head, "I don't know why I came."

It was her coloring that made her look so foreign - the stark skin contrasting with the inky hair, then the fortuituous sun-golden eyes. In the Shire, they had ruddy skin, nut-colored hair, and eyes ranging from green to hazel, or, on rare occasions, blue. And _never _were they as up-front as this creature was.

Her eyes narrowed in thought, then she uncreased her forehead and redirected her attention to the back of Gloin's head, expression smug. "I guess I'll leave the wise sayings to Gandalf. He's much better at phrasing them."

Just as the hobbit was about to ask what she meant by _that, _Kili's youthful, ebullient voice piped up from behind them: "Hey! Miss Raste!"

Bilbo watched in growing concern as she folded backwards, laying completely flat-out on her back to look upwards at the young brothers riding a few paces behind them. "You don't need to call me 'miss', but yes?"

The Shire-dweller watched in consternation as her pony began to stray from the path, leaning over to hurriedly jerk the reigns back onto the correct course. Andraste didn't seem to notice, as she was deeply engaged in what seemed to be a joke-telling contest.

"Why don't elves eat rabbits?" Fili's gruff voice inquired gleefully.

With a roll of his eyes, Bilbo reached across to grab ahold of her reigns once again, straightening the pony.

"Because they feel bad for eating their kin!" Kili answered, and the two broke into uproarous, raucous laughter.

Huffing, Bilbo just snatched the reigns to hold them suspended in mid-air, for her stupid pony kept trying to wander off, and that would be quite rude for him to allow that to happen.

OoOoOo

"We'll camp here." Thorin's bass, resonant tones were definite as he hopped off his pony. He strode purposefully towards a weathered, broken-down frame of what seemed to be an abandoned farmhouse.

Looking troubled, the stooped Gandalf dismounted his own steed and followed the dwarf into the beaten establishment.

After ordering Bombur to prepare the meal - not a wholly great decision, really, if he were the one that cooked _last _time - Thorin turned around, adding as an afterthought, "Fili, Kili, take care of the ponies. _Don't _take your eyes off of them."

Andraste smiled. What a softie - and he liked to play the tough warrior. Ha. She supposed that since Dis's husband had been slain in the Battle for Azanulbizar or whatever it was they called it to make themselves seem intelligent (really, was _Moria _not a name intellectual enough for their considerable pride?) that Thorin, their uncle, had taken over as the father figure in their lives. Which was rather quaint, all things considered.

Dis had been no beauty, and it was apparent Thorin had been incredibly lucky to make off with a face like _that _in _that _homely family, but she was a scrapper all the same. Raste had never known her too personally, as the Fargoer's duty had lain in counseling the men in the likes of war, but they had still had oppurtunities for discussion.

Admittedly, Andraste had always found the dwarf woman's beard a bit distracting.

Living among the small people for many centuries hadn't changed the shock experienced whenever a female vendor, all grins and cheerful words, would approach her. _With a beard. _By Durin, some of the dwarven men could be attractive, but the females rarely made off with anything vaguely appealing.

She'd always wondered just _how _the dwarf males could stomach kissing something bearded. What a terrible thought.

It was incredible that Thorin hadn't fallen in love with Andraste, something she thought abou frequently. She was feminine-looking enough, and extremely beardless. Perhaps if not for that coy, gold-skinned, green-eyed idiotess Kahala. Not that she would have cared, of course. It merely would have been interesting.

"Are you feeling alright?" It was the humble hobbit - Bilbo, staring with concern up at her. "You look a bit... disconcerted."

"Better than alright," she answered swiftly, smoothly swingnig her leg over the saddle and hopping to the ground. "And yourself, Baggins?"

"You can call me Bilbo, I'll have you know," he told her in his peculiar way, hirsute hands clasped behind his back as he fidgeted and leaned. "And I could be doing quite a bit better, actually."

"Pity," Andraste said, unable to keep the sardonic edge to her voice. "Then I suppose you'll _really _be miserable when it starts raining, hm? That's the worst, riding through a path in all that water, especially with no pub within any realistic distances." Watching his face fall, she elbowed his ample stomach, smirking as she bent to loosen her pony's girth. "Don't look as if you're going to die. It'll be fine. You have a cloak, yeah?"

"Well, yes." He seemed to be an eye's width taller than her. Hm. How refreshing; being among dwarves was bad enough, being a head shorter than the taller ones, not _even _to _mention _constantly being at exact eye-level with Elrond's posterior.

"Then, with that and some ale, it'll all be some fun. Perhaps I'll even give some to Thorin. He's _so _much more fun when he's drunken," Andraste told him with wide-eyed sagacity as she handed the reigns to Fili, who was humming a perky little tune as he and Kili transported and tied each beast to some post out in the woods a bit.

Bilbo seemed taken aback, rocking backwards with a shocked expression before leaning forward with eager disbelief, frowning. "_Drunken?_" He asked in a low voice.

"He doesn't do it very often, but, when he does... it's very entertaining. He's happy, actually, which is more a miracle than anything else." The woman stepped back as the old wizard swished by hurriedly, muttering darkly to himself.

The hobbit was concerned. "Gandalf?" He called, beginning to walk after him. "Where are you off to?"

"To spend some time with the only person here with some sense," he replied huffily, swinging himself up onto his horse.

"Oh." Bilbo sounded rather crestfallen. "And who would that be?"

"I'm right here, Gandalf," Raste called in amusement.

"Myself, Mr. Baggins. I've had quite enough _dwarves _for one day." And, with that, the rather no-nonsense old man was off.

The Shire-dweller turned in dismay to Andraste, and for a moment they shared a look - while Bilbo was disheartened, the woman, in turn, was little more than smugly interested at best. Sometimes, she honestly just couldn't bring herself to care about certain things, such as Gandalf's abrupt departure. He was a moody wizard, and could do as he pleased.

Still smirking, she turned, twisting her way through the throng of unpacking, rowdy dwarves towards the farmhouse. It was a bit away from where the twelve other vagabonds were starting to prepare supper, and she was soon clambering up a bit of shale too tall for her diminutive, well-muscled legs to scale without some effort.

Nevertheless, she made it, halting near the doorway and watching Thorin's turned back as he stared into what used to be the fireplace. "If you don't mind terribly me stating the obvious," she said, "you just made Gandalf storm off like a petty girl."

"The wizard plans for us to find refuge with the elves," he responded, unmoving. His chest seemed to be heaving from rage, which Raste found to be humorously melodramatic. He acted as if the word _elves _were a hideous disease, which was also overdramatic.

"And he's no fool," she answered, approaching him in a swagger. "What, are you thinking that the elves will murder us all in our beds?"

The dwarf-heir whirled around to her, the silvery beads encircling his twin braids brushing softly against the dappled fur of his coat. His face was fierce, tone like a razor as he stared down at her. "You were not there the day the elven filth turned their backs on my fleeing people."

"Well, that's what you can expect from the Mirkwood elves; they're a bunch of pretty-faced, pathetic morons who ride deer." Fortunately, she'd been dealing with the stubborn Durin-line for most of what she could remember, and could enjoy herself thoroughly while convincing them not to be stupid. "The ones in Rivendell are far braver - and they don't ride deer. So it's doubly a bonus, Thorin. And I'm not asking you to stay with them, just not to be too enraged if we do later on." Smiling slightly at his thick-headed but nonetheless endearing idiocy, she raised her eyebrows.

He considered this with his stony mask. "I will not willingly allow that to happen, Andraste." His eyes were hardened flatly, an elusive depth of hurt reflecting in them.

So the elves bruised his little masculine feelings? "You know what's best for your people, who, in this case, happens to be the strange crew of dwarves out there. Gandy won't take us to the elves unless we _really _need help."

For quite a few moments, Thorin stared her down intently, face drawn with scrutinizing anger. "I will not be pleased if we do," he said deliberately, "but I will allow it to happen, if it must. My father and his before him trusted you, and so shall I."

Anything to preserve his delicate sense of masculinity. She knew he would listen.

"I guess I should say I'm honored," Andraste replied waggishly, looking up into his sharp, sea-colored orbs, "but you'd be in deep water _not _to hear out my wisdom."

His mask cracked, and his fantastically white, shapely teeth were minutely visible as his mouth pulled into a slight smile, dipping his head as if in thanks. "And you've always been so modest."

"Thank you."

OoOoOo

The woman perched on a log next to Thorin's hefty bulk, toasting herself by the fire as Bofur cheerfully ladled out rations to the dwarves, sending Bilbo off with two steaming bowls of soup to bring to Fili and Kili. Somehow, they were still embroiled with the ponies.

"You worked in Southdown?" Andraste asked in surprise, looking at the long-haired dwarf impressedly.

"As a smithy. It was a wretched town." His reply was disdainful (of the place - not her) and terse.

"Did the men mention your height constantly?" She inquired in understanding frustration, then tilted her head in brief reticence. "Well," she added with a smirk, "lack of it, rather."

"I got into more than a few brawls over that very thing," he told her knowingly. Then his head jerked up as his nephews bolted, huffing and panting fitfully, into the clearing.

"Trolls! They've got Bilbo!" Fili gasped.

"And the ponies!" Kili's addition earned him a heated but nonetheless agreeing glare from his elder brother.

Thorin as on his feet immediately, sword in hand. "Gather your weapons," he announced in a stentorian voice to the other dwarves, then approached the brothers with a frighteningly purposeful gait. "How did this happen?" He asked in a low voice just loud enough for Raste to catch wind of it by her placid, ruminating spot by the fire.

The blonde glanced at the brunette. "Two ponies got snatched by the trolls."

"And Bilbo insisted on recovering them when he brought us our soup," Kili finished, childish eyes wide. The woman felt a slight pang of guilt for the two youthful idiots; when it was all over, they were going to be hearing it from their uncle.

"Fools," he growled. "This shouldn't have happened."

Finished collecting her thoughts, Andraste spryly leaped to her feet, quickly moving to Thorin. "It's not a good plan to just up-front attack the trolls. They travel in trios most of the time, and, no matter their age, they're brutes."

"And what do you suppose we do?" Thorin asked scornfully. "Cajole them into letting the halfling free? An attack is the only way." His eyes blazed with the fire of battle running through his veins.

"If getting captured is your goal, then, yes, it's the only way," she countered. "Sneaking in and kidnapping Bilbo, or maybe even just stalling for time until dawn, are far better options."

His regal face was set. "We will attack as one and emerge victorious, Andraste."

She ground her jaw, staring up at him balefully. "Do you think King Thror allowed a dull halfwit to councel him in all ways of battle and war?"

"This is not a battle, nor a war," Thorin replied quickly. "This is reclaiming what, unfortunately, is ours. A skirmish. I know what to do."

"Or you _think_ you do, and I _really_ do. That sounds more correct to me. Listen: just go in with Kili, Fili and Bofur, and before you-"

"I know the ways of fighting an enemy," he insisted, glancing over her shoulder to the battle-ready dwarves. "Follow me."

Well. Perhaps he was even more stupid than his predecessors, which would really be a pity, seeing as he was her personally favorite pupil, for some odd reason which had just escaped her.

As all his dwarven warriors jogged off with him, she went back to the fire, pacing in irritation before striding to the Oakenshield's pack and ripping out his pipe and weed, quickly packing it in to the ornate wooden thing, readying it, and sucking inwards.

She waited, foot tapping impatiently. Part of her wished them successful, seeing as then she wouldn't have to interrupt herself from some excellent pipe-weed, but then she would also be wrong, which would be very disappointing.

Andraste listened carefully as the roars and shouts all simultaneously dimished.

Hm.

Seemed she wasn't wrong, then.

Rolling her eyes, she took the pipe from her mouth and started towards the forest.

OoOoOo

**There we go, another chapter finished!**

**So, once again, all of your guys' reviews were amazing, and I love to read them. I'd sure appreciate some more, even: what do you guys think of Raste, and my other characterizations? Are they all fairly IC? I'd love to know all of your opinions!**

**See you soon,**

**Elle**


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